In my five semesters at Michigan, I've taken three poetry classes and one independent study.

But I don't consider myself a poet.

I write whatever comes to mind and rearrange the syntax so it sounds somewhat lyrical when I read it out loud. (I don't know.) Here are some poems I've written for class that maybe aren't 100% terrible.

1. the break up

someone really stupid once said that people accept the love they think they deserve. well that’s bullshit because i knew i deserved better.

the way i see it, even in its realest and fakest forms, love and feeling loved can be better than no love and not feeling loved at all.

i think that’s why i held on for so long. because starting over with someone new is harder than waiting for the last petal to fall off of a wilted rose.

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2. don't tell me how to love

remember always that

how you pass time ultimately does

not define who you are

or where you’re going.

who you allow to

pluck your delicate petals

and strip you of the

stress cannot—

and will not—

shatter the passion now repressed by

late night calls and mindless

sexts that eventually lead to

at least one weekly session

during which you’re forbidden

to feel.

because god forbid you

attempt to move past small talk

and become vulnerable with

someone that reminds you week

after week how tragic is the

picture you’ve painted yourself.

god forbid you have

any emotion as a participant of

this lifestyle and ruin

the image that keeps him coming back.

but remember always that

the fire remains and will soon

reignite the fragrant red.

and then what will become of you?

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3. how not to lose me & what to do when you do

I.

treat me as you would your mama

when grocery bags overwhelm her arms

and she fumbles with her car keys

respect my time as you would your own

because my patience is beginning to wear

like the denim between your thighs

challenge me like you would your father

when the shot clock sees 01

and he doubts the nba’s most valuable player

protect me as you would your sister

when her prom date arrives at your door

with that roaming hand and fucking grin

II.

fight for me as you would your wildest dreams

persevering until every ounce of you is

spent

weep in my memory as you did buddy’s

when your family decided it was time for

him to play with the puppies in the clouds

then mourn this loss as deeply as you did the last at-bat of your career—

bases loaded, bottom of the ninth

you’re out.

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4. there’s something

beautiful about the way water collects in your eyes and pools over the edges, desperate to escape.

calming about the way your eyelids flicker in your sleep, like a filmstrip playing scenes from a movie.

unsettling about the fact that both heads have their own minds—the lower one always more persuasive.

pathetic about my inability to release myself from the maker of my tears.